


His Lark

by Ahsim



Category: Songbirds of Valnon - L. S. Baird
Genre: Gen, M/M, pre-Evensong's Heir, sappy and angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahsim/pseuds/Ahsim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But he had always been warm, as if he carried within him a small, private sun.   Alex suddenly didn’t recognize the hand in his, chill as forgotten statuary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Lark

**Author's Note:**

> How does one title? 
> 
> Considering the writing dry spell I've been trapped in, I'm super happy I managed to do this.
> 
> I am a huge fan of the new novel, Evensong's Heir, and my favorite character is, by far, the Preybird Kestrel (Rouen). I'm really fascinated by his time as a Songbird, though, and I adore the idea of the Preybird Kite (Alexander) and him being very close. (But not close enough in Kite's mind).
> 
> Unrequited love is sad.
> 
> Based on some extra information on LS Baird's blog, valnon.tumblr.com. It contains slight spoilers to Evensong's Heir.
> 
> All the characters belong to L.S. Baird and you should must certainly check out her tumblr and her novel, Evensong's Heir, as it is simply fantastic.

The sounding vents were usually a godsend, especially on days like today, when the rain beat slowly and endlessly on the Temple, and fog rolled in off the sea and settled with the stubborn finality of a shroud.  On days like today, it was soothing to hear the quiet comings and goings of flock boys and laypriests and prentices through the pipes.  Especially in their chambers, where few came and fewer lingered; it was easy, on days like today, when the world was gray and muffled, to feel like the last man in the world.  The vents were honestly a gift.

Of course, if you were trying _not_ to be heard, they were not quite so welcomed.

Alex wondered if that was how it had happened.  Rouen was always more bold than careful (unusual in a Lark, and somewhat expected in a Thrush which is why no one did more than roll their eyes at Alex occasionally), his happiness slowly eroding away the last of his (and fa Grayce’s) caution.  How easy it would have been to be just too noisy just too close to a vent.  Or, in brief, bright passion, to forget the vents entirely.  Was that how Raven found them out?

Alex let the thought go almost as soon as it had come, as was his habit.  Idle consideration of how and why changed neither the present nor the past.  Besides, Raven had had a sore spot when it came to Rouen for years; he would have overheard something at some point.  This had just been… _convenient_. 

As was also his habit, Alex sent up a silent, bitter prayer for Raven’s early retirement and earlier grave before stepping into his Lark’s chambers.

He pushed the beaded curtain aside, letting it fall back in place with a loud clatter of beads.  He doubted Rouen heard it, though.  His Lark was doing a more than adequate job of gagging himself.  Pillows covered his head completely, one of them pushed down hard, and Alex was sure, if he managed to pry it from Rouen’s grasping hand, that he would find Rouen had sucked a handful of bedding into his mouth.  It probably had holes in it.  Alex approached the raised bed.  So close, he couldn’t miss the almost-silent sobbing or the way Rouen’s back barely trembled.  Alex sat down on the edge with rare propriety.

“You’re going to ruin yourself for Dawning,” Alex said gently.  Rouen stiffened. 

“It’ll be better than that Evensong,” Rouen managed after several long seconds and wet sniffles.  Alex let out a hum and fell back across Rouen’s legs.

“I don’t think you sang that badly since your debut.”  An angry hiss came from beneath the pillows.  Rouen jerked and kicked, and when he couldn’t free himself from Alex’s weight—and the arm he slung over his knees—Rouen tore a pillow from his head and hurled it.  It sailed harmlessly over Alex.  “Your aim has also suffered.”

“Get out.”

“I can’t.”

“Alex.”

“I can’t, Rouen.  Your bed is devouring me,” Alex said.  He sank into the mattress, pressing his shoulders deep into the bedding.

“It is not,” Rouen snapped.  He twisted and shoved at Alex’s shoulder.  Alex let himself rock once, head lolling.  “Alex!"

“Make it stop, Rouen.”

“Leave, Thrush!”

It was by no means a secret that the Thrush was beneath the Lark, or that Alex showered Rouen with both the respect Temple tradition demanded and the affection that he naturally felt.  Rouen, however, was never one to make that distinction, except in the most formal of ceremonies where decorum demanded it.  And even then, it was momentary and begrudging.  Even when teasing, Alex was always an “alley rat” or “swallow child,” his heritage being no secret to anyone since he came to the Temple as a small boy and not an infant.   The sudden appearance of rank left an uncomfortable sting.

Alex sat up with a grace only visitors of Noontide (or a particularly lucky laypriest or prentice) typically saw, and bowed.  His hand trembled slightly against his heart.

“As my Grace commands.”

“Stupid alley rat,” Rouen muttered before Alex managed to slide off the bed.  Rouen had turned over and leaned up on an elbow.  He dug the heel of his palm into one of his red-rimmed eyes.  “Nothing was worse than my debut.  I forgot the fourth measure and almost fell of the dais.”

Alex couldn’t help the small smile; he barely remembered their debuts, but the shriek that went up after Rouen had managed an awkward step that almost turned into a teeter was memorable.  Thankfully, the dais had been descending; Rouen would have only broken an ankle, at worst.

“True enough, but you had been fresh and inexperienced then.  Innocent crimes—”  

The wording was worse than poor.  A miserable groan crept out of Rouen’s throat.  Alex flinched and prepared himself for a harsh dismal, which never came.  Instead, Rouen dropped himself back to the mattress and, with a curious and painful looking twist, buried his face.   Alex watched his back tremble for a moment before toeing off his boots and stretching out beside him.

Rouen hadn’t reclaimed his pillows, so it was simple matter of moving his hand to get a clearer view of his face.  Alex paused as he held the thin, elegant limb.  Rouen had always been pale: a mark of his breeding as much as his fine frame and almost delicate features.  But he had always been warm, as if he carried within him a small, private sun.  It had always swelled inside him, making him an enviable furnace in their chill chambers and breathing star in the Sanctuary.  Alex suddenly didn’t recognize the hand in his, chill as forgotten statuary.

He almost didn’t recognize the dull eye or cheek that Rouen turned towards him.  Then a tear welled along his lashes, and Alex saw for a moment the old light that used to be excitement or mischief.  It disappeared as the tear dropped into the bedding.

When Alex draped an arm over his shoulders, Rouen drifted towards him.  His face pressed against the hollow of Alex’s throat and stole the warmth from his skin.  Alex pulled him closer.  His fingers played against Rouen’s shaking back, drawing soothing patterns against his shoulders and spine through his thin tunic.  And when that did nothing and the tears started and gave Alex a little of his heat back, he hummed.  Nothing complex or openly beautiful.  Nothing that would make the Temple ring or the visitors of hours sigh in pleasure.  Just an old lullaby he thought he remembered his mother singing once or twice before she offered him up to a better life.

Alex still hummed after Rouen finally found sleep and the candles had burned themselves to dark.  Distantly, he worried about the vents and the new terrors flock boys would find if they heard a sourceless humming in the night.  But the soft humming, and perhaps the nearness of his Thrush, had warmed Rouen some.  Alex hummed through the night, measure upon measure, his fingers occasionally playing over Rouen’s back and gently pulling strands of hair from his delicate earrings.  He hummed and remembered his mother’s face and the smell of her scent and the kiss of soft lips and the song of earrings and bangles and laughter.

And when he could remember nothing more, he remembered Rouen.  He didn’t sleep, but the Thrush never slept when his mind was full of his Lark.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posted on ahsimwithsake.tumblr.com. 
> 
> Please check out Evensong's Heir and valnon.tumblr.com. You will not be sorry.


End file.
